


Dead Men Tell No Tales

by lavender_euro505



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Dunkirk Evacuation, French, Gibson (Dunkirk) Lives, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, Gibson’s POV, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Dunkirk Evacuation, Smut, World War Two, letter writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_euro505/pseuds/lavender_euro505
Summary: An after liberation from Dunkirk AU, where Philippe survives, and with the help of a few BEF privates, moonlights as the elusive “Gibson” so that he can be reunited with his estranged British father that left his family nearly twenty years ago.
Relationships: Gibson/Tommy (Dunkirk)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Disparate Youth

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Santigold song of the same name.

The saltwater was rising, the boat was sinking, the other soldiers were fleeing, and Philippe was drowning. 

He was going to die alone in this dirty, God forsaken Dutch trawler. Damn it all. If you survive Dunkirk, they say you’ve managed a miracle. Between the Stuka sirens, bombings at the beach, and torpedos in the sea, he’d been lucky thus far. If only because of Tommy, he thought, as chains held his foot captive. 

He was blacking out. He wasn’t going to make it. Philippe would die with his broken shell of a family on his mind and the nameless boy he’d spent a week with at Dunkerque on his lips. He fled, like many others, and failed. What a bastard!

He imagined the way his older half-brother, Gabriel, had his leg blown in two by a German grenade. He imagined the pained grief on Gabriel’s twin, Lucien’s, face as he watched Gabriel helplessly moan for help in open fire. A couple of weeks before he arrived in Dunkerque, Philippe received a letter from Lucien, telling him that he was at the infirmary with their brother Gabriel. During battle in a small town to the west, Lucien was struck by a metal pole that entered one side and went out the other. His leg was shattered by shrapnel and debris and he wore a neck brace. Despite all of this, he reported that both he and Gabriel were barely hanging on, but to be strong for mother and the twin girls at home. 

Gabriel’s leg became infectious and he developed sepsis. Crying for his mother and holding his brother’s hand, he died within that afternoon. Grievous, ill and in severe pain, Lucien’s future was looking grim. The nurses say he held on for the night, but by morning, he was gone. 

Lucien’s last letter to his only brother, Philippe, was still tucked neatly in his borrowed British uniform. His throat and lungs burned as he cried out. He supposed he’d meet them again soon.

Before losing consciousness, Philippe could feel something give way at his ankle, as something stronger than him began furiously tugging under his arms. He could feel his body go light, it felt like he was levitating. Is this what it felt like before one sees God, he thinks. His thoughts are blurry after that moment. He’s beyond comprehension as two men carry him and wade through the choppy waves toward the rescue boats ahead. It’s quite the vision, if they've ever seen one. 

A fleet of what looks like pleasure yachts bobbing up and down in the horizon are their saving grace. They’re not going to be picky when the alternatives are being bombed by the Luftwaffe at the beach, torpedoed and drowned by U-boats in the sea, or simultaneously drown and burn alive atop the oil slick ocean waves. 

A red-headed teenager with worrisome eyes pulls them aboard one of the little boats. It's already crowded with oil slick soldiers, some British, some French. The two men call for someone to perform CPR and somewhere in the depths of Philippe’s unconscious mind, he’s dreaming of a Heaven that sees him greeting his brothers once more. He’s halfway to Heaven and halfway on Earth by the time they reach the shores of England. 

What Philippe doesn’t know is that he’s one lucky bastard.


	2. Don't Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I look and catch your eye;  
> I see you look back at me.  
> Why don’t I just come over, move a bit closer?  
> It should be so easy;  
> I just want you to talk to me.“*
> 
> Picked up by a little boat, Philippe makes it to Dover with the rest of the rescued soldiers and decides his fate at the local train station hoping to catch a glimpse of his Dunkerque companions.

Rejected from Heaven, Philippe jerks upward and gasps a lungfull of ocean air. His fellow soldiers, whose faces look like grim, oil covered ghouls, stare back at him with an expression that probably matches his: terrified. 

He reaches for his legs and feet to make sure they’re still there. He kicks and tries moving them, but his toes feel stiff and immobile within the hobnail boots. They were a pinch too big for him. He squeezes his fists closed at his sides, still amazed that everything was there and working. His head was pounding and he prayed that it still worked too. 

The boat he’d boarded began to rock violently and the men sitting round him started to jostle and get to their feet. The heavy waves threatened to overtake them as the men grabbed for the sides of the saftey ropes or each other for support. Philippe pulls his body forward, the heaviness in his head matching the heaviness in his chest as he coughs with the effort of sitting up. He doesn’t recognize anyone and realizes quickly how alone he is when he tries to get to his feet. There’s no Tommy to search for. There’s no Alex for help. Philippe ends up stumbling at the feet of the soldiers as the boat rocks back and forth through the choppy waves. 

A wooden trap door above their heads swings open and Philippe looks up toward the light. He flinches. 

“Alright, lads?” A voice calls from above. 

No one says anything. 

“Just in the choppy waters now, almost to the cliffs.” He can just make out the almost ethereal glow of the red-headed teenager, his savior of the hour. He wonders fleetingly if Tommy is safe. He tries not to consider the fact that the boy may have forgotten him.

The boat keeps rocking and it becomes more difficult to keep awake. Someone kicks at his leg, but he’s not sure if it was intentional or accidental. At this point, a torpedo could rip through the boat’s belly and he wouldn’t be bothered. He ends up staring at the ceiling, wondering if he should’ve died in that trawler, until his exhaustion takes over. 

When Philippe opens his eyes again, he’s being lifted up onto his feet, half-carried out of the boat. 

“Made it to Dover then. You’ll take the train into London from here, lad. Good luck. And thank you.” He turns toward the voice and the faintly familiar language. He didn’t know what the teenager was saying, but he had a faint smile on his weather worn face and a determined look in his eyes, like he was pretending to be stronger than he was. 

Philippe blinks at him and purses his lips, not sure whether he should say something back in French or his unsteady English. The boy must understand something about his dilemma because he just smiles wider, gives him a brief head nod and gently pushes him away toward the rest of the men. Philippe stumbles, nodding back, and drags his feet to keep up with the crowd. 

As his legs carry his numbed body with the rescued men, Philippe notices three distinct things: it’s bone-chillingly cold, dark, and someone is playing loud English music. They must think this is soothing, but all Philippe wants is for them to shut it off. 

A man next to him, holds his head, clearly disturbed and mumbles in a Flemish accent that he wishes they’d just killed him too. The man picks up his head and meets Philippe’s eyes. He brings a single finger up to his lips. His footsteps drag along as they reach the entrance of the train station. The man reaches out and puts a finger against Philippe’s lips and Philippe is so shocked that he doesn’t move. Someone behind him shoves at his back to keep going; there’s a line for blankets, bread, and tea up ahead of them. A man shouts about the music, startling the others around him. Philippe hopes it’s to tell them to turn it off. 

Jostled out of place, Philippe stumbles, looking with wide eyes back at the Flemish man. The crowd moves Philippe forward and the man begins to disappear into the darkness. It’s the last time he hears French spoken for a while. 

Dover is small and seemingly friendly. There are local women and men serving the returned soldiers, British, French, and Belgian alike, small rations of bread and tea. Philippe wraps his blanket around his shoulders like a cape. Maybe then he can feel like the hero they said he’d become by joining the war effort. Stranded here in England, he just felt like an unwanted stowaway. Despite wearing their uniform, no one approached him. He spotted the French soldiers who’d been taken up in the rescue huddled together with what he recognized as a small Belgian fleet. His feet carried him away from them. He needed to blend in and that meant staying away. 

He sipped his tea, burning his tongue. It was the least of his troubles. How could he pretend to speak and understand English? It was never something passed down to him, despite having a British father. The bastard left him and his older brothers before Philippe was a year old. His mother never quite explained why except to say that the British and French had never quite gotten along. Philippe never really understood it until he met the British soldier that him and Tommy saved - Alex. Stuffing the bits of bread into his mouth, he recalls the name and address his mother had written for him when he left for a father that was never really a father to him. It was his last saving grace. It was all he had here in England now. 

A shiver racks up his spine as he shuffles toward the outskirts of the platform, away from the crowd. He finds an empty space on the wall to lean upon, hidden partially by a shadow. The lights at the station are dimmed, barely on, for fear of Axis planes. Philippe strains his neck looking up at the dark, cloudy sky. He thinks about his brothers and stuffs the last bits of bread into his mouth to keep from crying. 

When he closes his eyes to try and remember their faces, the only thing he can seem to remember is a young man, with freckles across his nose, shining hazel eyes, and a standard military haircut haphazard across his forehead. He opens his eyes, struck by the sudden memory. He imagines the face smiling and can just see a pair of crooked teeth peeking out. He wants to run his thumb across the grain de beauté at his jaw. He wants to smooth away the worried lines between his eyes and pull him against his chest. It felt like years ago since he last saw Tommy and Alex, despite it being only a week. 

He slips against the side of the wall he’s leaned against, bread and tea heavy in his belly. He’s eaten them too fast, he thinks, arms holding himself against the cold. It feels like the night they were boarded on the hospital boat at Dunkerque, he thinks. 

Out on the crowded platform he sees a figure turned his way, standing away from the rest. He wonders if it’s the Flemish man again. They seem to be looking intently in his direction and Philippe can feel the nerves pulling the tea back and forth in his belly like the waves in the channel as their rescue boat made its way to Dover. Philippe holds his stomach, willing himself not to be sick. The hum of voices sounds like a sustained note, mellow enough to create music with. Philippe closes his eyes again, trying to let the sound soothe him, and ignore the lone figure on the platform that’s turned away from him. 

His face is warmed by hot tears that come unbidden. His chest shakes with the force of his cough as he’s driven to bend forward at the waist, a hand to his throat. There must be an entire ocean in my belly, Philippe thinks, desperate watery coughs wracking his body. His back slams against the wall, exhausted, his eyes and chest and throat burning. He tries blinking the rest of his tears away and finds someone close to him, peering down at him in the dark. 

He thinks at once that he must be seeing visions. He was exhausted and if not a little delusional because of the lack of sleep, food, and acute shock. The figure was no more than three meters away and stubbornly silent. Philippe wished he’d say something or otherwise just go away. 

Looking up at the person and blinking through stinging tears, he could make out the dark hair and short cut of a man in a soldier’s uniform. _God, what did this Flemish man want with him,_ he thinks, annoyed. Black oil covered the man’s face and their squinting eyes shined. Philippe finds himself smiling and chuckling to himself for believing that maybe it wasn’t the Flemish man, but Tommy who’d come wandering this way and stared at him confusedly. An impossible reality, Philippe tells himself. A better method would be to pretend that Tommy had just been some soldier he’d met. Nothing more. 

“Gibson?” A broken, English voice asks softly. The tone echoes the sound of his beach companion, trapped, desperate and shaking in a Dutch trawler. Blinking his eyes to see more clearly is no use and Philippe nearly scratches his eyes out trying to get a good look at the person before him. 

“Gibson?” The person asks again, a little more urgently. Philippe can’t remember the last time he’d said anything. No, it was back on the beach. In Dunkerque. _Francias. Je suis Francais._

Philippe looks down at the silver tags still hanging from his neck. Cold as they should have been, they seem to burn into his skin, their unnerving memory lingering. 

When he tries to speak, his voice doesn’t work at first. His cough comes back and it takes Tommy bending down to smooth his hand down the middle of Philippe’s back for them to subside. They’re merely breaths away, nearly nose to nose when Philippe looks up with tears in his eyes, “Philippe,” he whispers. _“J'appelle Philippe.”_ Tommy is shock-still, watching him. Philippe wants to lean into him, close his eyes, rest. But he can’t. 

The night is broken by the shriek of their train back to London. Hobnail boots shuffle along the concrete and the mellow hum is substituted by the cry of the train’s arrival. It makes both of the boys jump and Tommy falls sideways into Philippe’s lap. The top of Tommy’s unkempt hair tickles the underside of Philippe’s chin as he embarrassingly mumbles a slur of what sounds like apologies. Tommy’s hands clasp around Philippe’s knee to steady himself, as the Frenchman’s own shaky hand tries to pull him upright. 

A laugh pushes itself out of Tommy’s lungs at his clumsiness and it’s the first time that he can’t quite meet Philippe’s eyes. Philippe doesn’t like that, so he gets foolish and reaches out to tip Tommy’s chin up, to catch his eye again. The Englishman’s lip is caught by his teeth as he teeters on the tips of his feet, swaying closer, then farther away. It’s like Tommy’s not sure what feature to focus on the most, so his eyes try their best to map out everything. Philippe holds his gaze, feeling his hands slip away as Tommy’s forehead scrunches up and he moves away completely. 

_Non, no me quitte pas._

Tommy’s warmth no longer gives him comfort as the boy is stumbling backward. Philippe watches him, hoping things haven't gone too far. _Didn’t he want to be comforted, too?_

“ _Oi,_ Tommy! Hurry up, lad! You’ll miss the train!” A loud voice carries over the thrum of boots and voices. It sounded insistent and Mancunian. Alex.

Tommy finds his footing, but doesn’t stop looking at Philippe, a sadness to his eyes. The latter watches him, with hope. 

“ _No me quitte pas,_ ” he whispers like a mantra. Philippe watches the way Tommy’s throat bobs up and down, his mouth moving like it wants to say something. Anything. 

“ _Mate,_ we’ve got to go, yeah?” A hand jerks Tommy around and Philippe can see that it is indeed Alex. He’s breathing heavily through his nose and turns a confused face toward the man sat below them. 

“Gibson? You made it?” Philippe squints at the incredulousness in Alex’s voice and shrugs his shoulders in response. “Fucking hell…” 

Tommy wipes a hand over his face, looking at Alex and back at the train. 

“Go,” Alex tells him, pushing him away. “Let me have a word.” Tommy takes Alex’s arm in protest.

“Alex, just leave it, yeah? For God’s sake.” Alex trains his eyes on Tommy, pulling his arm away from him. 

“Go, hurry up. Save us a seat,” he turns his back on the boy as Tommy hesitantly shuffles away. He doesn’t stop looking until he’s up the train’s steps. Philippe’s heart drops to his stomach as he watches him go. 

“Listen, mate,” the sound of Alex’s voice makes Philippe look up at him. “No hard feelings, yeah? But maybe you should come to London with us.” Alex nods his head back toward the train. 

London, Philippe repeats. Alex nods.

“Aye. Emotionally, it’d be for the best… brothers in arms and all that,” Alex’s mouth twitches at that. “Shouldn’t be alone, should you?” He holds a hand out to the French ally sat before him and Philippe has only a few seconds left to make a choice as the train whistles again. 

“Oi!” A voice yells from the platform. 

Alex’s eyebrows dance upward, waiting. Somewhat begrudgingly, Philippe takes his hand and he’s hauled to his feet. The tea in his belly sways with the movement and he holds his mouth closed to prevent from being sick. 

The train starts moving before they’ve reached the platform. Tommy’s swinging his body halfway out of the doorway, urging them to run. Philippe uses that to propel himself faster. 

He couldn’t quite say how he made it up the half meter step and into the train carriage or how his bread and tea stayed where he’d put it, but he was slumped sleeping beside Tommy in no time - headed for London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Song: “Don’t Go” - Joe and Fionn (Whitehead)


	3. We’re Going Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy brings Philippe home.

There’s a dreadful rain as they arrive into London proper. 

Alex is woken up by a clap of thunder and jostles the table in front of him as he does, kicking Tommy’s foot in the process. 

“Oi...” Tommy’s warning has no heat to it, groggy and disoriented from sleep. Alex ignores him and shakes himself awake to look out the window he’d slumped against. Everything looked morose and grey. What a way to greet them home. 

Philippe is still asleep, or at least, pretending to be. His eyes flutter and he shifts toward the warm body beside him. He didn’t want to wake up yet. He didn’t want to move. For the first time in months, probably this year, he was having good dreams. Why would he want that to end? 

Alex ends up kicking him too. 

Philippe jerks awake with his eyebrows furrowed. Alex just stares at him, a smirk on his face. Tommy’s looking the same way, Philippe notices, but instead looks more like a grumpy kitten than anything else. It’s that thought that finally breaks the annoyed look on his face, as he turns toward Tommy. 

In the daybreak, he catalogues where the light touches Tommy’s features and he wishes that he could touch them too. _Hold him._ _Caress him._ _Smooth out the hardened lines of his face._ _Smudge away the traces of oil, sand, and fear_. Tommy notices his staring and apparently Alex does too, because he clears his throat quite noticeably and kicks Philippe again.

“Ever been to London, Gibson?” Alex raises an eyebrow. Philippe turns to face him, trying to pretend as though he understands. Alex folds his arms across his chest, eyebrow still raised, waiting for an answer. Philippe studies him. He remembers the name, _London._ The tilt of his head seems like a question, Philippe considers, quickly looking out the window at London as they arrive, to stall for time. 

He puts his lips together and shakes his head, no. 

Alex chuckles at that.

“I didn’t think so. London’s quite big, so you’re lucky there,” he watches as London passes by them too. “Lots of different people, eh, Tommy?” Alex raises an eyebrow at Tommy now, leaning forward on the table. 

Tommy simply shrugs. “Suppose… what are you getting at then?” 

Alex reaches for Tommy’s collar and yanks him forward, their noses nearly touching. Tommy makes a squeak of surprise and grabs the edge of the table. 

“He’s our problem now,” Alex whispers, his eyes cutting once to glance at Philippe. “Unless he stays with you, that is.” 

“What makes you think he’ll stay with me?” Tommy stutters as Alex lets go of him and he falls back into his seat. Philippe watches him as Tommy nervously adjusts his shirt where Alex had it bunched up in his fist.

The Highlander runs his fingers through his hair, “Oh don’t be daft, Tommy. I’m not blind. Besides, he’s certainly not staying with me…” 

Tommy is blushing and Philippe wonders why. He won’t even look in the Frenchman’s direction now. 

“My point, though, is that London has people from all over. He’ll blend in better, won’t he?” Alex turns to Philippe, pointing a finger in his direction, his eyes creases in the middle.

He lowers his voice, “You’re Gibson, now. Got it? No more whoever you were before. He’s gone. He’s... dead. You stay here with us, you’re Gibson.” He nods once to solidify what he’s said and Philippe furrows his brow. Was he saying that he is now _the_ Gibson? The Frenchman hated it, but Alex was probably right. Philippe was buried back on Dunkerque beach. He needed to become someone else now. 

Their train jerks to a halt, whistle blowing, and commotion outside the metal doors. The three men look out the window toward a platform of people forming a crowd outside the doors. Mostly women, waiting anxiously for sons and husbands to hug and kiss. Philippe imagines his mother is in the crowd, too, somehow waiting to see him again. 

Someone pulls on his coat sleeve.

“Up you get, Gibson,” Alex says, motioning with his hand. “We’re leaving.” Philippe doesn’t understand, so he looks back at Tommy. 

“We’re leaving.” Tommy echoes, reaching around for the blanket they were given earlier and wrapping it around his shoulders protectively. Philippe reaches for his and does the same. Tommy nods for him to follow Alex and he obeys. It’s easier now just to take orders. 

When they make it onto the platform outside, it’s a dreadful sound. The heavy murmur and screams and crying and bodies everywhere nearly sent Philippe in a dizzying spell. He’s lost sight of Alex, but he spots Tommy’s form just ahead of him, when a young woman with fire-red hair stops him and kisses him fully on the mouth, with a wet smack.

It startles him so much he stumbles and nearly sends them both to the ground. He can hear her giggle and say something but her accent sounds differently to Tommy and Alex, so he’s not sure what to make of it. 

Before she can kiss him again, he sidesteps her and heads in the direction of wherever Tommy might have gone. He wipes at his mouth, red lipstick smearing along his face with the oil. 

Trouble is, all the Englishmen here look the same: same dark hair, same clothes, same grim expression. The murmur of voices seem to catapult as Philippe tries to cut through the crowd and out of the station. The ground is still wet from a previous rain and the clouds look threatening, ready to open up once more. There’s thunder in the distance, at least Philippe hopes, as he tries to steady his heart. He’s not seeing Tommy (or Alex, for that matter) anywhere. This is what they wanted, wasn’t it? To suddenly lose him as they left the train. He’d be someone else’s problem. That’s why they were whispering so close. That’s why Tommy refused to look him in the eye, blushing. He was guilty too. 

The thought made his heart sink. 

“Philippe? I mean, Gibson?” 

At the sound of his name, his real one, he whips around, having found himself in a corner of the station huddled in his blanket. He was trembling, when Tommy put a steady hand on his shoulder, a small smile on his lips. 

“I thought I lost you. Again,” he indicates with his head the way out. “C’mon. We need to bus over to mine. We could walk, but I’m bloody exhausted.” Philippe nods, as Tommy picks up his pace, heading for the direction of their bus terminal. The rain has let up a bit since they’ve got off the train, but Tommy knows it’s bound to pick back up at a moment’s notice. 

As they go, Philippe takes notice of London. _Big._ That was a word Alex used when he talked about it, right? He catalogues through his memory for any more useful information, but comes up short. Needing to translate words and then remember them for later too tasking for his tired brain to handle now. He turns to his left and there’s Tommy, just ahead of him. Far enough away, but close if he needed to reach for him. 

If he weren’t so fatigued, he’d be embarrassed by his looks, his smell, but he knows Tommy understands. He’s in the same way and looking just as haggard. Philippe keeps his head low, afraid he’ll see someone who might recognize him, but who here would he know? 

As they approach the small bus stop, there’s only a few others waiting, and it’s only until they’ve stood in silence for a few minutes that Philippe realizes they’ve unceremoniously lost Alex. He’s not sure whether that should be a good thing or not. Despite it all, Philippe would’ve given him the courtesy of a hand shake - at least. A man’s voice shakes him out of his thoughts.

“Bus’ll be late, lads.” He mutters, unfolding a newspaper from his spot leaned against a light pole. This brings a bubble of laughter out of Tommy’s throat, something that Philippe decides he’d love to hear again.

“Bit funny, eh?” He says, in an almost hysterical way as he continues laughing. Tommy leans into Philippe's side and whispers to him that some things never change. The poor boy is blinking away tears, giggling and hiccoughing into Philippe’s side. Now, he’s a bit concerned. The others at the bus stop are looking at them with a pitying mixture of concern and trepidation. Tommy’s gasping now and Philippe wonders what the man had said exactly. With his hand spread across Tommy’s back to comfort him, Philippe turns to the man and points toward the road.

“No bus?” He tries to mimic Tommy’s accent, but he’s not sure whether it lands. 

The man only raises an eyebrow and turns a page. “Late, as I’ve said, boy.” The older man sighs, twisting away from the pair. By this point, Tommy has straightened upright and his face has settled into a solemn look. Philippe bumps his arm in a gesture of comfort and Tommy returns the touch. He can’t lose him now. 

Buses running late were an almost constant occurrence, one that used to drive Tommy mad before the war. One could say it still does. 

It’s almost thirty minutes later that they finally catch the bus, the driver voiding their fare, and asking them where they’d like to go. Tommy refrains from saying home and instead gives his childhood address in southwest London, just past the Thames. The two sit together in silence during the journey, and by the time they reach the boroughs of Richmond, it’s already late afternoon. Standing up, Philippe’s swaying on his feet and he’s not sure which is more important - hunger or sleep. 

The semi-detached home that Tommy brings them to as they leave the bus swells Philippe’s heart. It’s not familiar, but the symbolism is significant: _home_ , his heart tells him. He turns to Tommy who’s standing still, just gazing at it in fascination. _Home_ , Philippe’s heart tells him once more. 

Home.


	4. Only The Young

_Mother, it's cold here. Father, thy will be done. Thunder and lightning are crashing down. They got me on the run. Direct me to the sun. Redemption, keep my covers clean tonight. Baby, we can start again._

_‘Only The Young’ by Brandon Flowers_

The first thing Philippe notices about the house Tommy brings him to is that the windows are blacked out and the vine-covered-gate enclosing it has been locked shut by a thick, heavy chain. Tommy goes slack beside him, almost seeming to float on his feet in awe. 

As they both step closer, it becomes more apparent the actual state of the place. Glass shards litter the front steps leading into the house and it seems not a light in the house was on, leaving a shell of what once was Tommy’s childhood home. 

“ _Ton..._ family?” Philippe starts, but quickly stops as a man from across the street shouts at them. 

“Family’s moved on, lads! Sorry to say.” The boys both turn to the source of the news and find a rather pudgy man taking out a bundle of clothes to the street. Tommy vaguely recognized him. He wondered if the man could recognize him or perhaps the war had distorted him so much that it was impossible now. Tommy shakes his head in disbelief.

“Moved on? What do you mean, _‘moved on’?_ ” The man blows a puff of air from his thin lips and runs his hands through his hair. 

“They’re in another house, aren’t they? Afraid of Jerry’s bombs and that. Told David it’d be alright, but Mary wouldn’t listen, would she?” The man gives them a raised eyebrow, like that was a typical ordeal. 

Philippe watches as Tommy marches across the street toward his former neighbour, a crease between his eyes and clenched fists. 

The names David and Mary weren’t familiar to him, but they sounded very English, Philippe thought. Maybe these were Tommy’s parents. 

“She’d be right to listen!" Tommy steps forward are marked by his words. "I was there. I was at Dunkirk. Jerry's at our door, aren’t they? Maybe you’d be smart to move your arse too.” Philippe couldn’t quite catch everything Tommy said, but he could understand Dunkerque and the high lilting tone when Tommy was frustrated. By the looks of things, he was getting more than. 

Philippe feet pull him forward, cautiously, toward his companion, following Tommy across the street to his neighbor. The man eyes them both, still dressed in uniform as they were, covered in oil and grime and probably needing a lifetime of sleep and a ten course meal. 

The man frowns, giving Tommy a tut. 

“We have an Anderson shelter for that, boy.” Tommy stops himself from wrapping his calloused hands around this man’s neck and instead bites his tongue to ask, 

“And where might my grandad and mum have moved to?” 

The man shrugs, ever unhelpful. 

“How should I know?” The front door to his home slams shut as a woman dressed in a new frock steps out onto the pavement. “They left without so much as a good-bye. We’d been neighbors for years!” 

The man turns to the woman, his wife, Philippe assumes.

“ _Margaret,_ would you know where the Mackenzie’s across the street have moved to?” 

She puts her glasses down the bridge of her slender nose and eyes Tommy curiously, before doing the same to Philippe. Tommy crosses his arms. 

Margaret licks her lips. “And who might you be?”

“Their son,” a bite to his tone has Philippe gripping his arm, as if to hold him back from a sudden attack. Margaret’s grin is like a fox.

“Oh! Both of you then?” 

“Tommy, isn’t it?” Tommy nods and the man’s eyes widen almost comically.

“The strapping soldier, eh? Shouldn’t you be at the War Office, then? Not deserted your post, eh?” Before he can answer, the man turns to look at Philippe, leaning in and inspecting his clothing. 

“And ‘hoo are you?” The neighbour points out Philippe’s hobnail boots, the laces intricately tied. “Picked up a refugee when you were there?” 

The woman waves her husband off, as if the idea was ludicrous. 

“Oh, Robert! You heard Churchill. All the French are still fighting, you know. Needed our lads to escape!” She steps forward and ruffles Tommy’s hair with a lily-white glove. The remnants of black oil stain the delicate lace and Tommy grins when she finally notices. 

“They’re fighting and saving us,” Tommy looks to Philippe with gratitude. Philippe returns the look, a small smile playing on his lips. He’s not sure why, but he wants Tommy to look at him like that forever. 

“Any rate, we’re all glad our lads are back home, aren’t we, Margaret?” 

“Definitely. In fact,” from her purse she pulls out a thin slip of paper and presents it to Tommy. “They left this in case you came back… by the way.” Tommy snatches the paper from her and studies the careful penmanship of his grandad, David. It was a short message addressed to Tommy in case he came back and they had already moved house. Their new address was written at the bottom with a plea to come home soon. 

“We’ve got to go.” Tommy says to Philippe, who was looking over Tommy’s shoulder at the letter. Philippe nods immediately, wondering where that might be.

They leave without a thank you, see you later, good luck, or good-bye. 

They decide to catch the next bus down the street from where they came. This one was only filled with soldiers, a few who by the looks of it, may have also just gotten in from Dunkirk. Tommy and Philippe find seats next to each other, Philippe at the window. 

Tommy turns to one of the men and nods at him. He barely shifts his head in return, his eyes sullen and dark. 

Shifting around to look behind him, Tommy locks eyes with a ginger lad.

“Any idea where this bus is going then?” 

“Pembroke Lodge.” Tommy’s brow pulls together. 

“ _Pembroke Lodge?_ ”

“Aye. That’s where HQ is, innit. Not too far away, don’t worry.” 

Tommy twists back around in his seat, the note from his Grandad tucked neatly into his jacket. Philippe eyes the man Tommy was talking to before turning to look at the one sitting beside him. He nudges Tommy with a questioning look. 

“They’re taking us back to barracks,” Tommy whispers, his voice barely there. “We can’t let them take you.” He purses his lips together, eyes resolutely trained forward. His hand finds Philippe’s in between their seats and it startles Philippe when he feels Tommy’s hand wrapped around his, squeezing for all he’s worth. 

“Stay with me. We'll start over,” Tommy casts his eyes toward Philippe, breath fanning across Philippe’s face; they're so close. “Promise me you’ll stay?” Tommy’s eyebrows go up and quite suddenly Philippe witnesses the face of a boy who was brought into a world of war too soon, where hope and love and goodness were barely there. Philippe wants to kiss it better, because what else could he do? Tommy didn’t understand French and his English wasn’t sufficient. 

Instead, he catches the light in Tommy’s eye and returns the hand squeeze with a soft English, “Yes.” 

At Pembroke, they're called ‘Phantoms’ and their commanding officers, they've been told are ‘Fairy’ and ‘Hoppy’, respectively. Philippe wonders if Tommy also had a nickname that he wasn’t aware of. He wasn’t sure how to ask. 

Two officers instruct them to wash up and get to barracks before tea. Philippe’s stomach aches at the thought of just having a cup of caffeine for his dinner, but he thinks it’s better not to complain. Silently, he follows Tommy’s lead, speaking only with a head nod here or a quirk of his eyebrows. 

They file into their new squad's tented barrack, some patrols hurriedly making their way to fresh bunks, toilets and showers. A young Quartermaster throws a heap of clothes and towels their way. 

“Shower or sleep. Havin’ tea in a bit, but if you oversleep, you don’t eat.” It’s too fast for Philippe’s mind to process, but he doesn’t miss the words sleep and eat. He could do both - for ages. 

He holds his new uniform in his arms, clutching them to his chest, his stolen dog tags imprint themselves into his skin. He flinches at their touch. Tommy glances at him and motions for an unoccupied bunk to the left, near the front. Philippe looks around the room, an outfitted barrack with the look of a barn if he were being honest. Most of the bunks are full with lounging men, some playing a game of cards, others filling the air with laughter. 

Tommy leans into his companion, whispering, “We need the front ones in case we should leave.” Philippe just looks at him. He doesn’t really understand until Tommy motions to leave out the door just five steps away. 

_A quick escape,_ in other words. Philippe nods, smiling. 

“ _D’accord._ ” He says, just as a firm grip holds him back from jumping up the ladder to his top bunk. 

Tommy’s eyes widen as the soldier gripping Philippe’s arm narrows his eyes at him. He must’ve been just behind them or had come from the bunk opposite them, his trousers half undone and his shirt off. Philippe levels him with a cautious glance. 

“You speaking French, lad?” A wave of nervous heat washes over Philippe as he instinctively looks to Tommy. _Shit._ This was Alex all over again.

Stunned, Philippe says nothing. But now more soldiers are crowding them, blocking the way to the east wing where the showers were. This one must’ve been in the middle of undressing to wash off, his face still full of war grime. Philippe refuses to say anything, gulping back his words. He meets the soldier's eyes, still narrowed, beady.

“Because if so,” Tommy throws his clothes onto his bed, moving to stand beside Philippe. “We’d have a word with our CO about it, wouldn’t we, lad?”

“What’s that, Reggie?” Another troop, tall and brown-haired, but seemingly well built under his brown Highland jacket. Tommy turns to look at him and his eyes widen. 

“Got a Frenchie here, I think, Alex. But he’s gone all shy now.” Philippe’s head turns to see the Highland regiment Manc standing there just a foot away now, smirking at him. 

“Is that so?” 

Tommy’s eyes cut straight into him as he begs. “Alex, please.” Reggie shakes his head, meaty hand not letting his grip up on Philippe’s arm as he pulls him back toward the entrance. 

“Might fancy a trip to the War Office, eh boys?” Reggie’s holding Philippe in one hand, his undone trousers in the other. Philippe thinks this is ridiculous. What could a half dressed pasty patrol do to him? 

“What are you doing in English barracks, eh?” 

“ _British._ ” Alex corrects. Reggie swears at him and tips his head to the front flap. Philippe gives a minute shake of his head, the clothes he held falling to his feet, hand outstretched for Tommy. 

“Sticks with this one, doesn’t he?” Instigating, Alex comes around the back of Philippe, hand slapping his back to stand between Tommy and Philippe. 

“But we’re in the same regiment, Alex.” No one's listening to Tommy’s protests, eyes on the new boy with the queer shoe laces. Reggie points it out. 

“He could be of use to us, lads. We need eyes and ears back in France. CO said the BEF’s in tatters and we need a new strategy.” Reggie insists, loosening his grip on Philippe’s arm and grabbing him by the front of his jacket. “Let’s go, frog.” Philippe’s eyes go wide as he’s pulled by the collar toward the barrack entrance by a wide, half-dressed man with raven dark hair. Tommy twists away from Alex, reaching for Philippe’s hand. 

“Wait!” They all stop, even the Quartermaster up front handing out clothes. 

“He’s on our side, please. Don’t…” Alex nudges Tommy’s side. 

“His emotional support frog, innit.” Reggie cracks a smile and the other men around them burst into laughter. It felt like the entire barrack bunch were looking at them waiting for Reggie’s next move. He makes a move toward the entrance and Philippe is desperate. 

His eyes meet Alex’s and it’s his last resort. He’s not sure what sound his throat makes but he hopes it sounds as close to Tommy’s accent as he can make it. 

“Please, Alex?” It seems to startle the one holding him as Reggie stops, suddenly realizing his trousers are nearly halfway down to his knees.

Alex isn’t Philippe’s savior though, as a short man with a thin mustache pulls open the tent flap to let himself inside. Philippe had no idea who he was, but assumed in his black beret and J-badge emblazoned on his arm, he must be another sergeant. The man is frowning, narrowed eyes sizing Reggie up. Philippe thinks Reggie’s face turns so red, so suddenly he’s afraid the man might pass out. 

“Knight?” Reggie fumbles, lets go of Philippe and makes a mess of doing up his trousers, getting the zipper stuck on his pants. 

“At ease, men,” He’s done with Reggie, addressing the rest of them, eyes on Philippe. “We’ve more men coming in from Dunkerque so don’t get fresh,  
He makes a point of flicking Reggie on the forehead, effectively releasing Reggie’s grip on Philippe. 

“Be ready,” the officer instructs. “Tea at 1800 hours.” Tommy discreetly pulls Philippe by the arm back toward him and their shared bunk. Philippe tries hard not to stumble.

“And Knight, take a shower. No one needs to eat next to a pig stye.” A round of chuckles break out as the man leaves and Tommy and Philippe go back to being invisible. Reggie snatches the rest of clothes from his bunk, grumbles, and stalks toward the communal showers. 

Tommy releases a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding as Philippe does the same. 

Alex kicks at the side of Philippe’s hobnail boots. 

“Lucky little shit.” 

_Tea — 1800hr_

“Annie would’ve liked to marry here,” Tommy whispers, half to himself, half to Philippe as their barrack forms a queue for tea. “I mean, not the barracks, but at the mansion.” 

“Who’s Annie? Your girl back home?” Alex sidles up next to them, earning groans from the soldiers behind him. Tommy makes a face. Philippe waits for his answer. 

“No,” he slips out of Alex’s casual hug. “My older sister. Getting married soon.” Alex’s eyes widen. 

“In a bloody war?” 

“No time like the present,” Tommy glances at Philippe who’s no longer looking at him. 

Philippe can see groups of armored cars and motorcycle units to one side, with rows of twenty or so barracks to the left. Their cafeteria hall wasn’t too far from the lodge, where an ivory mansion sat, surrounded by heather colored trees and vines stretched across the façade. He can hear his grandfather's voice in his head, sighing and cursing at the cultural beauty of buildings being abused for sheltering war criminals. He thinks of Paris, of Amiens, of his family. 

“Let’s eat quickly, yeah?” Alex commands, swinging his long arms across Philippe and Tommy’s shoulders like their long lost pals. “Wanna sleep for 100 years.” 

“Maybe by the time you wake up the war will be over,” Tommy tries to joke. Philippe finally looks his way again.

“ _Bonne chance._ ” 

To Philippe’s delight, tea isn’t really just tea. It’s a proper meal of bread and chicken and mushy peas. Tommy swallows his tea in one go, shoveling food in.

“Slow down, lad, or else you’ll choke.” Another soldier sat beside him berates. 

Alex cackles, nudging Philippe’s side hard. “He’d like that wouldn’t he, Gibson?” Tommy nearly spats out his tea. 

“Fuck off, Alex. What’s wrong with you?” Philippe spends the rest of tea watching the way Tommy’s throat gulps down the rest of food. He knows he shouldn't think about it, but he can't help his mind from wandering - watching Tommy bite into a bar of chocolate, listening to Tommy moan at the sweetness. It's not the place nor the time, but they're only young still, Philippe thinks. Despite the war, the feeling hadn't been numbed after all. Fleetingly, Philippe wonders if Tommy shares his thoughts as the boy breaks off a piece to hand to his French companion. 

Alex leans into Philippe, whispering, "Don't even think about wetting your wick tonight, lad. Won't just be French, then." Philippe's not sure what Alex has told him, but he thinks he understands when Alex sticks the tip of his tongue against his cheek and makes a rude gesture with his hand. Tommy smacks him and shovels more chocolate into his mouth. 

Back at barracks, the boys move slowly for the shower, taking no time to soap up, wash and rinse off. Philippe makes it a point not to face Tommy, lest he remembers Alex's taunting from tea. _Dieu merci_ Tommy refuses to look his way. 

Tommy’s dried and dressed by the time Philippe makes his way back to his bed where his bunk mate is holding a pencil and a few sheets of paper for him. 

“Want to write to your family?” Tommy as he makes room for Philippe to sit beside him. _Familie._ Philippe sees the scribbled address of David and Mary on Tommy’s lap and his hand instinctively goes toward his heart, where his own letter from his brothers had been. Philippe nods, searching for his belongings. He lifts his thin pillow and finds the stolen dog tags. He hesitates, but throws them around his neck. Throwing the scratchy wool blanket back, he runs his hands over the flat mattress pad. Nothing. His eyes find Tommy's and he freezes.

They’re gone. 

His jacket. His trousers, even his ill-fitted boots. 

The letters from his brothers are gone. Gabriel and Lucien receive a second death in their absence. 

Philippe can feel the rush of blood to his head as his skin flushes with renewed heat. He can hear Reggie from across their bunks laughing. Philippe sees red. 

“Philippe?” Tommy ducks his head from the bottom bunk, wondering what’s happened. He sees Philippe stalking toward Reggie’s bunk, shoulders square and hands clenched.

Reggie's in the middle of a reenacting a story from his boyhood for his bunkmates, as Philippe stands in front of him, tense with fury. 

“Helloooo and to what do we have the pleasure?" Reggies sweeps his arm in front of him, a wide grin stretched across his face. "Someone steal your croissant?” 

No matter what, Reggie could evoke a snicker out of the other patrols despite nothing he says being funny. Philippe takes another step, inches away from Reggie's smug face. 

“My letter.” 

Reggie chuckles, his bunk mates giggling along with him, swinging their feet from the top bunk. Philippe lets out a long held breath, trying to even out his growing frustration. His Grandfather's words echo in his mind as he meets Reggie's dark, misty eyes, _don't let them see your weakness._

Reggie lifts a silver flask to his lips with a sloppy swig, “Your wot, mate?” 

“My letters, _putain de connard_.” The next thing Philippe knows is he's being shoved hard in the chest, stumbling on his feet into Tommy. 

"What the fuck did you just call me, private?" It's like Dunkerque beach all over again, as the air seems to have been sucked out of tent. Reggie's regimental brothers surrounding him and Tommy, a finger and silver flask pointed at Philippe's chest. 

"Where's his letters, Reggie?" Philippe hears Tommy growl beside him. 

“Oh? _Those letters,_ " Reggie sneers in a thinly veiled voice of annoyance. "Are going to the CO. We need those as evidence, mate. Gonna report to the War Office in the morning, aren’t you?” Reggie meets Philippe’s eyes with an alcohol slick mouth and stained teeth, tauntingly pushing his chest, inch by inch. 

“What? You can’t do that!” Tommy swings himself in front of Philippe, swatting Reggie's hand away like a fly. 

“Yeah lad?" His eyebrows go up, eyes wide. "Watch me.” Reggie guzzles another mouthful of liquor and reaches behind him for the letters. He fans them in front of Tommy's face. 

“ _Il sont mort_ ,” Philippe whispers. “Dead.” He nods to the letters Reggie was using to fan himself with. 

Tommy swings his head to look back at Philippe like he's hearing something for the first time. He watches as the fight leaves Philippe's body, chest rising and falling slowly. Reggie watches the pair of them, draining the remnants of his liquor. He turns back to his bunk mates, who've grown bored of the situation, as one of them throws a wet towel at his face. 

"C'mon, Reg. Leave it." Tommy reaches for the letters, as Reggie distractedly shakes off the towel chucked at him. He bares his teeth, not to be outdone and snatches them away from Tommy's reach.

“C’est la vie and shite.” Philippe watches as Reggie throws the letters at the feet of their bunk, scattering the pages across the floor.

“You’re a piece of shit.” Tommy swears under his breath, helping Philippe retrieve the rest of the papers. Tommy watches as Philippe’s face goes stone still, holding the letters close. 

Whatever happens to them, Philippe knows he can't stay here. Not with Reggie Knight's campaign against him. Not with Alex's mood swings. If it means leaving Tommy, to keep them both from harm's way, he'd consider it. Eyes misty and dark green, Philippe catches Tommy studying him, eyes glancing down at having been caught. They move to the other end of Tommy's bed, side by side, hands inches apart. Philippe hears what he thinks is an apology from Tommy. Philippe was no stranger to bullying, but he could certainly hold his own ground. He just needed a strategy. He was fond of them. He reaches across Tommy's lap for the pencil he had and quickly scribbles a message for his mother. 

He picks his head up to see Reggie watching them like a falcon. 

He turns back to his letter, lying through his teeth to his mother that everything was just fine. Biting his cheek, hot tears threaten to break across his face. 

He won’t give Reggie that satisfaction. Or anyone.

_Bien Cher Maman,_

_Today I am sending you my best wishes from England. Everything is fine here. I am safe. After a good night's sleep, we are full of courage. The day looks beautiful and I hope as every day to receive news from Amiens, or Paris. We should get some one day, eventually. I also hope you will receive news from me from time to time. This is why I write to you mornings and evenings. Tender kisses to everyone._

_Your Philippe_

He seals it with a kiss and quickly addresses it for morning pickup. Philippe's not the praying kind, but he asks God for a quick reply anyway.


	5. Reggie (Bellend)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippe, Tommy, and Alex get used to life in the barracks of Pembroke Lodge, but the things Philippe witnesses while he's there just might cost him, life and liberty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Phew* It's been a while since I last updated! I'm hoping to get this baby out by March. Enjoy this long chapter about life at Pembroke barracks and Reggie being a bellend to our lads. Cue jealousy and general homophobia!
> 
> Throwing up/Vomit warning for the first bit.

_“Don’t leave me, Maman. Please, don’t leave.”_

_Philippe remembers the tearful exchange he had with his mother when he was fourteen and the family wasn’t doing well financially. They were barely making ends meet, but got by with Aurelie’s meager wages and whatever menial work Gabriel and Lucien, or Luessi as Philippe called him, could find._

_“I’ll work with Gabriel and Luessi on the farm next door. I’ll stop school. Please.” He remembers clutching to the ends of her dress, and feeling the hot stones under him as he sunk to his knees. His mother shook her head at him, slapping his hands away._

_“Go, Pip! Be a man, now. Your father would be proud of that.” Philippe whips his head up to look at her upon mentioning his absent father. A person he only knew by name and a few scattered stories from his mother and brothers. His father was a war hero, they told him. He had to leave France to protect his ‘Queen and Country’, they explained, when he asked why he wasn’t there._

_“And what about protecting us?”_

Mornings at Pembroke were simple so far. The men were woken by a bugle call for Reveille. For their makeshift squadron, it took Philippe exactly fifteen minutes to wash, shave, and make his bed. 

They were led by a second Lieutenant named Barnsley. He was incredibly tall, lean, and had a bright, toothy grin when he smiled. All the men in his platoon liked him, but despised his sergeant, a sarcastic, strong-armed man named Rook. His head came up to Barnsley’s shoulder and was probably the funniest bit when they stood together at the front for assembly. There were about thirty or so privates in their make-shift platoon and their job was to get them fit enough to fight again, as Rook liked to reiterate. 

The morning roll call was the same everyday and Philippe found himself getting used to the early mornings and the feel of a mattress, however thin, at his back. Their mid-morning stretches, push-ups and five mile jogs around the perimeter had several of them spewing up their streaky bacon and plum & apple jam every morning. If that happened, they had to run it again. 

“Shouldn’t go so harsh on ‘em at the start, Rook. These are evacuees from Dun-kirk, you’ll remember.” 

Rook folds his arms across himself, giving Barnsley a dissatisfied look. 

“ _You’re_ too soft on ‘em. Since they’ve been to Dunkirk, then they should know,” he blows a whistle at the last of them crossing their starting point. “ _Fighting fit!_ ” He’d yell and the platoon would break out into song. Chants, really, to keep up the morale. Philippe pretended to play along. Soon enough they were learning commands and getting lectured on rifle work. Philippe spent extra time learning how to properly tie his laces and polish his boots and buttons from Tommy, lest he get a 10-minute public reprimand from Rook and 5 more miles to run. 

“ _Fighting fit._ ” Philippe whispered, trying out the new words. 

It was already day three and Pembroke was soon becoming a haven for recent evacuees, with more stranded soldiers turning up nearly every hour. One man turned up so dead on his feet that he missed nearly five mealtimes because he’d been asleep for 36-hours straight. 

The ATS platoon arrived after every breakfast to help with postal deliveries, the lunch time rush and the men’s waning morale. This was particularly exciting, because it was a platoon of women: young, attractive and unmarried. 

One sergeant up ahead of Philippe was practically salivating into his soup, watching the women ladle potatoes and veg into bowls. 

“You can come back for more later, Buster.” One of the women serving Philippe calls out. The sergeant’s ears go red as he nods his head and stalks away toward a table. She ladles soup for Philippe and gives him a warm smile. She had the same chestnut brown hair as his mother, but her eyes were a darker green. She wore deep red lipstick. He nods his head in thanks and moves down the line for a biscuit and water. 

Philippe finds Alex in the crowd, sitting alone at a table near makeshift windows. Alex addresses him by holding up his biscuit and sending it flying halfway down the other end of the table with his fingers. It makes a heavy thud against the plastic table.

“Thick as a Reggie Knight’s skull, eh?” Philippe tips his head at him, watching another private pick up the biscuit and inspect the table for damages. Alex grins. 

“Thought that one would make you laugh, for sure. Where’s your other half?” Between mouthfuls of soup, Alex raises his eyebrows in Philippe’s direction, expecting an answer this time. 

Philippe’s stomach soon answers, groaning at the smell of the thick, bland, concoction. He really couldn’t be picky now. 

Alex nudges his foot and tries again. 

“Where’s old Tommy? Seen him?” 

_Tommy? Wasn’t he behind him?_

Philippe looks up from his soup and catches sight of Reggie Knight and another private whispering to Tommy near the front of their table. Tommy already had his lunch, eyes flitting back and forth from where Alex sat with Philippe to Reggie and his mate. 

“Oi, you see him?” Alex looks up too now, nodding to the boy who’d captured his biscuit. “Pass it over! We’ll have a quick footie game.” The other boy laughs and chucks the biscuit through the air, narrowly missing Philippe’s head. 

“Oh, look alive Gibson!” Alex sing-songs, making Philippe chuckle at his antics. If it were possible, Alex’s grin widens. 

“See? Knew I could make you laugh.” Their moment is interrupted by Tommy joining them, seemingly reluctantly. He hesitates to make eye contact with them, mainly Philippe, and it unnerves the Frenchman that he does. 

“Alright, Tommy?” Tommy nods, quickly going to work on shoveling food into his mouth to keep from talking. Philippe’s stomach growls angrily and he follows suit. How long had it been since he properly ate? He tucks into his lunch fast, hard biscuit and all. 

_That was his first mistake._

Philippe can feel the saliva building in his mouth, just after following Tommy and Alex from the mess hall. His stomach lurches. 

They’d just come from breakfast, which wasn’t anything to shout about, but it had been filling. At least, Philippe’s stomach wasn’t groaning from hunger pains. Still, he holds one hand to his stomach and the other to his mouth, eyes watering. 

Tommy looks back at him to see why they weren’t side by side and notices Philippe’s discoloration.

“Y’look a bit dicky, Gib.” He touches Philippe’s shoulder like he’d be spooked if he did anything else. Philippe’s eyes go wide as he pushes past Tommy, Alex and a few other men smacking each other on the ass. Philippe’s makes a beeline past the showers and communal area to a marshy area just past the C.O.’s quarters. It wasn’t too far and at least there he could heave up his lunch (and breakfast) in peace. 

_That was his second mistake._

The potatoes, veg, and biscuit come up just past his toes as Philippe bends at the waist, spewing every bit of food and tea he’d had that day. He didn’t feel poorly; he must’ve just ate too quickly, he reasoned. He did that a lot when he was younger, as if someone would come swooping in to steal his meal away. 

His body shivers as he spits into the wet grass. That’s when he hears it.

“ _Fuck,_ hurry up, hurry up, before someone sees.” Philippe’s not sure what that means, but he can just make out the sound of something wet and slick, sliding against something. He furrows his brows, picks himself up from where he was sick and leans to the left. 

Just past him, were a grove of overgrown trees, willowy and draping across a marshy area. A few meters inward, Philippe could see the body of a man sergeant’s uniform, facing away from him. His body, from the waist down was bare, however. His hips working in unison with the wet, slick sounds Philippe heard earlier. The man looked like any other British officer marching around Pembroke, so he couldn’t be sure who it was. 

Unable to look away now, Philippe hears the man start a low groan, thrusting more forcefully now and spitting a litany of curses at the one on his knees. Philippe hears a gasp, but he’s not sure if it’s him or the man pulling the cock from his mouth. The man looks up with an almost expectant expression on his face, as if he was expecting praise or a kiss. He didn’t get either, just a pat to the cheek and a sharp order to get to his feet. Philippe’s breath must have caught in his throat.

Just through the trees, and in some nightmarish wonder, Philippe locks eyes with none other than Reggie Knight. He doesn’t look back to see who the officer is, but at this point, he’d really rather not know.

Philippe finds Tommy in the barracks playing a card game with Alex, and winning. Just after lunch they had an hour of down time before resuming training again. Tommy looks up to hear Philippe running over to join them. 

“Finally! Where’d you go off to?” Tommy sits up at Philippe’s arrival from a lounging position across from Alex. Philippe tries catching his breath, but can only catch the suffocating taste of soupy potato veg. His face must have still been ashen because the first words out of Tommy’s mouth are,“What’s wrong? Were you sick from lunch?”

Alex’s brow crinkles in the middle as he takes a card from the pile they are playing with. 

“Tommy, why do you insist on talking to him in English? He doesn’t understand you.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes at Alex and touches Philippe’s shoulder, trying to inspire a gentle response.

“Well, let me just speak to him in all of the French that I know, Alex.” Tommy offers Philippe a small grin. “You okay?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Bellend.”

“ _Reggie,_ ” Philippe whispers, once he can get some words out. 

Alex cackles loudly, smacking down a card. “See, so you do understand my humor, Gibson! Bellend… Reggie. Let’s have another one,” he taps his index finger to his chin. “Coward…” 

“Alex, would you mind yeah?” Tommy turns back to Philippe, hands on his shoulders. “What’s happened? You can tell me.” 

How can he put this exactly? What had he seen in the marshy mangrove just beyond the C.O.’s quarters? Tommy’s hazel eyes shine with concern as he asks Philippe another question. 

“Reggie? What about him? Did he say something to you?” Philippe looks at his hands. He shakes his head and looks away, a flush creeping up onto his face. Alex looks up at him and is drawn in by Philippe’s expression. 

“What happened, Gibson?” 

“Reggie,--” He lifts his hands in front of him, making sure no one else around them could see, and makes a crude motion with his fingers that could best describe what he’d witnessed. 

When he dares to catch Alex and Tommy’s expressions, they’re not what he was expecting. Alex looks surprised at first, but then frowns a little, as if he shouldn't be. Tommy’s face falls, but then hardens quickly when he catches Philippe staring at him. 

Philippe bites his lip. “Sorry, sorry, _je ne sais pas!_ ” He tugs at his hair in frustration. Tommy simply shakes his head, nose flaring, making distance between him and the Frenchman. 

“Do what you want then, but it’ll cost you,” the look he gives Philippe is fleeting, but hurts all the same; eyes shining. “You could get kicked out or moved to another unit, _without us._ ” He points his thumb toward Alex and himself. Philippe just looks at him, eyes wide and apologetic. _What had made Tommy so upset? What had he not understood,_ Philippe thought.

Tommy rolls his eyes and scoffs. Philippe moves toward him, reaching for his arm, but just as he does, they can hear commotion coming from the front of the barracks. 

Barnsley.

“Which one of you is called,” he clears his throat and looks at a short paper in his hand. “ _P. Guillet?_ ” 

Alex jabs Philippe in the ribs, hard. The Frenchman lurches, clutching his side, as he feels his army necklace slip from around his neck. 

Philippe coughs loudly, tries to suppress another one, spits and looks at Alex with a cross expression. Alex puts a finger to his lips. 

Barnsley indicates with a flick of his hand to Rook, standing just outside the barrack flaps. Suited in his usual officer attire, dark hair slicked down to one side, he makes a show of going round to everyone’s bed. Philippe looks at Tommy, but the Englishman is refusing to make eye contact with him. Merde, what had he done? _Merde._

Philippe is practically sweating by the time Rook makes it round to them. His name sounded rough coming from the sergeant.

“P. Guillet?” Tommy shakes his head and looks directly at Philippe, without meaning to. Philippe swallows back his fear, looking straight ahead. He hears Rook question Alex, who stalls as if he’s forgotten his name altogether. Rook gives him a slap and calls him a “senseless git” after yanking his dog tags to inspect. Philippe’s blood runs cold as the short, stodgy man stands in front of him. 

Just past his shoulder, as he stood half a foot shorter than Philippe, the Frenchman can just make out Reggie standing at attention in the front, next to his bunk. His face wore no evidence of his previous actions in the shadow of trees, but the longer Philippe stared at him, the more it seemed Reggie was determined not to look back. 

“I asked a question of you, Private.” Philippe looks down to see Rook twitching his nose and poking his finger into his chest. 

“Sorry?” 

“ _P. Guillet?_ ” 

“No… lost.” He threw in as an afterthought. The man moves closer, his nose a mere inches away from his own. Philippe tries not to flinch back. 

“Lost?” What do you mean, _‘lost’?_ ” Philippe shakes his head, helplessly, as Rook ruffles the collar of his training dress. 

“Where’s your tags, Private?” 

“Sergeant Rook, sir. Permission to speak, sir.” Rook swivels around on his foot, stunned almost into silence at Reggie Knight standing at attention in the front, looking straight at Philippe. 

“We are doing an inspection of French troops, Private. I suspect that you are aware of the situation, yes?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well, then you’ll let me get on with the inspection.” Before Rook can turn once again to interrogate Philippe, Barnsley claps his hands together and chuckles. 

“We’ll carry this on after training this afternoon. Sergeant Rook,” with a slight of hand, he motions for Rook to follow him from the tent. “Gentlemen, as you were.” 

Philippe can almost hear the collective sigh.

“Got lucky, nine tails.” Alex punches Philippe on the arm, throwing his stolen tags at him. The Frenchman catches them in one hand, looking at the imprinted letters and numbers that meant very little to him. 

“Wonder what stuffy britches was up to?” Alex mumbles settling back on his bunk. Tommy sits next to him and looks toward the front barracks. The mysterious name P. Guillet seemed to be on everyone’s lips now as they released a breath after the spontaneous round. 

“Why are they looking for French soldiers?” Tommy whispers, more so to Alex than anyone. 

“They wanna move ‘em to another unit.” All three of the men look up to see Reggie Knight leaning against the empty bunk next to them, a smirk on his face. 

Alex rolls his eyes, unimpressed. 

“Oh yeah? How would you know? They don’t tell us nothin’.” Reggie rolls his eyes back. 

“I know they don’t. I just heard some officers talking, is all,” he looked quickly in Philippe’s direction, like he was challenging him to dispute that or not. “They wanna move ‘em and ship ‘em back to France.” 

At that, Tommy shoots up from his spot on the bed, gripping Reggie’s shirt lapels like he’s deranged. 

“What? They’ll kill him!” Reggie throws him to the ground with a scoff, as Philippe quickly bares his teeth, wishing there was something he could say. Instead, he helps Tommy to his feet, catching the wiry boy by the arm. 

“Calm down. He has a choice,” Alex raises his eyebrow. “He can go to France and fight in the front or he can stay and fight with the French army here.” 

“There’s a French army here?” Philippe’s eyebrows crinkle at this word. 

“French army?” He tries out on his tongue. Tommy nods. 

“Francais armee, um, they’re staying on to fight with other French evacuees, right?” Reggie nods. 

“French Foreign Legion or summat like that,” Reggie shrugs, but Alex steadies his eyes at his flippant manner. “They’re moving everyone at the end of the week. So, your little Guillet friend needs to make a decision.” 

The three Englishmen look in Philippe’s direction. 

Reggie steps up to him, boots polished and gleaming only an inch from Philippe’s.

“Are you staying or are you going?” 

Philippe turns to look at Tommy. 

He needed to stay. This was the only place his mother knew to write to. 

_“Promise me, Pip. Don’t come back here. If it’s anything like before, don’t come back.”_

_It was the only time his mother had ever hit him, after he vowed it was a promise he couldn’t keep. Tear tracks left his skin blotchy and red, as he clutched his stinging cheek._

_“Promise me. You will not come back,” she holds him by the shoulders as he drapes himself in her arms. “Go to England. Find your father. Promise me, Pip. Promise.”_

There was nothing that could stand in the way of him giving it up. 

“But if you do join them French boy, you’ll be an outlaw.” Tommy scoffs. 

“Better than a coward.” Alex mumbles.

“Why should we trust you with this?” Tommy steps in front of Philippe, coming into Reggie’s line of sight. 

“Look, half pint,” his eyes cut toward Philippe. “You don’t want to cross somebody like me. That’s your final warning.” 

“Or else, what?” Alex urges on. 

Reggie pats the head of both Philippe and then Tommy with a large, meaty hand. He smiles, showing a gold capped tooth. Philippe seemed to think it really suited him. 

“Or else spend the entire war locked away in prison for indecent behavior.” 

It didn’t go unnoticed by Alex that Reggie pointedly looked Tommy and Philippe’s way when he said it. 

“Nobody cares. We need all the bodies we can to fight.” Philippe notices Tommy’s face go a bit pink as the men continue talking, casting his eyes to the side in order not to meet Philippe’s gaze. 

“They won’t now, maybe. But they’ll keep a record, mark my words,” he puts a finger into Philippe’s chest. “They’ll hunt you and they’ll find you and they’ll lock you and your fruity friends up.” Tommy reaches up and smacks his hand away. 

“Oh _fuck off._ ” 

Reggie smirks with a self-satisfied grin. They watch as he swaggers away to his bunkmates. 

Philippe’s not entirely sure what’s happening, but the way he can feel Tommy’s energy thrumming next to him, and it doesn’t bode well. He swipes a hand across his chest, like he’d been threatened. But by what, he’s not entirely sure. 

He looks back and catches Reggie putting a finger to his mouth in a gesture and then pursing his lips. Philippe’s eyes go wide.

He wanted Philippe to be quiet about what he saw. He needed a way to blackmail them just in case Philippe could get his words out and ruin him. 

“ _Tommy, nous devons partir...we must go._ ” Except when he tries the words out in English, they come out sounding like “we go”. He didn’t remember too much from his scarce English lessons. 

“You’ll be deserters,” Alex quips. “You can’t just leave willy-nilly, Gib.” Tommy paces in front of them, picking his head up at the bugle call for afternoon training. The men jump into action, changing into their training uniforms. Pulling his arms into his shirt vest, Tommy whispers into Philippe’s ear.

“We’ll get a travel warrant issued and we’ll see my parents. I’m sure they’ll let us go on leave soon, okay? We’ll make a plan then.” Philippe understands “plan” and “travel”, but not much else. He nods anyway, with a small grin. Tommy matches it, looking hopeful.

“Good, just…” he puts a reassuring hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Hopefully we hear from your mum soon, yeah?” 

The boys have been in new temporary barracks at Pembroke for a little under a week. Philippe worries everyday about a letter from his mother that Tommy persuades him to send her another one with his parent’s address, just in case they gain early leave and end up at David and Mary’s. 

Evacuees were filing in every day since they arrived, most of them British, with a few hundred Dutch, Belgian, and French soldiers in the mix. There were even two that ended up in Barnsley and Rook’s platoon. Philippe was grateful to meet them in secret to try and garner information. Most of the rest of the platoon kept to themselves,which didn’t bother Philippe much. He was used to the English way by now. 

He never saw Reggie again by the mangrove, but he knew without a doubt that he had the same affections toward men that Philippe did. He just couldn’t pin down who the officer was that Reggie had been with. Any number of them could be it; they were always salivating about the ATS women when they came to volunteer with their mobile canteens. 

Despite hurriedly learning all the broken English he could from his new French companions, Philippe makes slow progress with Tommy. 

“Tommy?” Philippe asks on a night when they were off from their menial duties. Tommy half-asleep in his bunk now, eyelids fluttering. 

“Hm?”

“What is _‘indecent behaviour?_ ” Tommy’s eyes fly open.

“Why do you want to know that?” Philippe hesitates, pulling himself more fully onto his bunk, embarrassed now. 

Tommy swings up until he’s got his elbows resting near Philippe’s pillow, his face inches from the Frenchman’s knee. He pokes it with his index finger. 

“Why are you asking?”

Philippe shrugs, “Reggie, he…he did this, I think.” Tommy’s nose flares and he seems to settle on something in his mind. 

“To you?” He whispers like he doesn’t want to know the answer. Philippe shakes his head aggressively. 

“Non! No… a sergeant,” Philippe bites at his lip. “It is something with men?” 

Tommy looks Philippe, all gaping mouth and wide eyes. 

“You’re serious? You saw?” Philippe nods again, sure. 

“Fucking hell.” 

_This was Philippe’s third mistake._

The very next morning at roll call, the platoon finds Barnsley and Rook suspiciously quiet and grim, if Alex had anything to say about it. 

“What’s with the sour puss?” Alex nudges Tommy on their way to breakfast. Tommy shrugs, filing in line with the others, making sure Philippe was somewhere in his line of sight. 

It was like usual morning assembly, but instead of just Barnsley and Rook at the front, the C.O. stood next to them, twisting and his moustache. His beady eyes glared out into the crowd as he called everyone to attention. 

“Before you tuck into your meals and fawn over the broads serving breakfast,” his words clip, echoing across the spacious yard. “Remember, men, that we have a strict policy to adhere and forming an efficient squadron for Queen and Country is of utmost importance.” The C.O. steps out to walk between the lines of men, stopping every so often to stare someone down with intimidation. 

“Indecent behaviour will no longer be tolerated. Under the old C.O., it was probably swept under the rug- even encouraged when the feeling overtook you!” He slaps his hands together and the boy, no older than 19 years old, flinched beside Tommy. 

“That’s what women are for! Now,” The C.O. turns on his heel and makes his way back up toward Rook and Barnsley. “For any of you who can’t help but swing your willy’s round, you won’t be sent to another unit. You’ll be shot.” 

Rook’s voice breaks as he steps out of line, “Sir-” The C.O. swings his body around so that he is towering over Rook, face inches away.

“Did I hesitate, Sergeant?” Rook can do nothing but stand rooted to his spot and shake his head. 

“No, sir.” 

The C.O. swivels around and faces his men.

“You’ll be shot. Am I understood?” 

He doesn’t wait for a response, simply gives a salute and a mumbled as you were to Rook and Barnsley before taking off toward the officer’s quarters. 

The men were soon released to eat breakfast and for Alex, Philippe, and Tommy it was a quiet affair. Their regimental brothers jostled and joked beside them. Philippe heard enough from the Frenchmen the severe order that they’d been placed with. He looks to the side at Tommy, barely eating his jammy bread. Tommy meets his eyes and he nods.

“We have to leave.” Philippe nods back, offering Tommy a hopeful smile. “I’ll get a travel warrant. They’ll try to send you away to the French army, so you’ll need to escape.” Tommy peers up at Alex from behind his bread slice. 

“Will you help us?” He whispers. Alex blinks his green eyes at him prettily. 

“The question is ‘can I help you’?” Tommy wipes jelly from the corner of his mouth. 

“And can you?” 

Alex pauses, like he needs to think it over, but then winks giving them a dimpled grin, “Sure, but it’ll cost ya.”


End file.
